


The Life of Spot and Race

by suckerforvintagestuff



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Best Friends, Canon Era, Developing Friendships, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grinding, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Homophobic Language, I tried to make it kinda historically accurate, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Realization, Slow Burn, They're not really enemies there's just gonna be some angst, but only kinda, but that was too hard, so its only kinda, sprace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-24 21:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17711492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suckerforvintagestuff/pseuds/suckerforvintagestuff
Summary: Just the entire lives of Spot and Race, separately and when they're together. I decided to try and make it historically accurate but still faithful to the text so it's a bit of a jumble of both.





	1. Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have really big plans for this story so enjoy this short exposition chapter

Sean Conlon had been a newsie for as long as he could remember. That’s all he could remember. Barely past the age of a toddler, and off in the streets selling papes. Of course, he knew that he wasn’t always a newsie. He was four years old when he stumbled out of that boys home and into the alleyway where Bangs found him face first in the pavement, passed out from exhaustion.

Bangs was most definitely a newsie, and did not try to hide it. He was skinny and lanky, a bit like a twig, and his newsboy's cap was always pushed back a little too far. He wore the same striped corduroy pants every day, which only made him look taller.

From the moment he saw the scruffy kid, he knew he had hit the jackpot. A pink-faced, freckled baby like him could easily sell two hundred papers a day. At least. So he picked Sean up, hauled him over his shoulder, and took him across the Brooklyn Bridge to the lodging house. It did not take long for Sean to fit right in. For his whole life (which hadn’t been for very long) he was supposed to be good. He was supposed to say “please” and “thank you”, and nod politely whenever an adult asked him if he liked living a boys home. He had to wash up for dinner and would be punished for roughhousing with the other boys. But with the newsboys, he had freedom. The other boys would smoke, gamble, and fight. It was amazing. The lodging house which he soon called home was always noisy, kids yelling about who-knows-what while playing cards. The smell of cigars and strangely, soap, always hung in the air. But it smelled like home.

And boy, was Bangs right about one thing. Sean was an ace at selling papers. On his first day, Bangs’ brother, Louis, offered to spot him fifty papers. But he declined, and scavenging nickels from his time in the boys home let him buy just enough to get by. It didn’t take long until he became the top-selling newsie in the whole borough. He knew every trick in the book and even invented a few of his own. The “last paper ploy” was always his favorite, where another newsie would hold his papers while he asked someone to buy his “last paper” and let him go home for the day. It worked like a charm.

It didn’t take long for him to go from ‘Sean’ to ‘Spot’. Bangs dubbed the nickname, claiming it was because of all the freckles he had on his face. But Spot, and only Spot, knew it was because he would never let anyone, well, “spot” his papes.  
By the time he was a teenager, Spot was the official unofficial leader of the Brooklyn newsies. There was no crowning ceremony or nothing, and no one ever talked about it. Everyone just knew. Spot had that kind of charisma to him. You would follow him because he seemed trustworthy. And he was loyal. If anyone even touched a hair on one of his boys’ heads, he would have them beat up. Despite newsie “politics” life was relatively simple for Spot. He watched over Brooklyn, and Brooklyn watched over him. Life was easy. Until he met Racetrack Higgins.

Racetrack Higgins wasn’t a ‘bad kid’. He just got in trouble sometimes. Sometimes being all the time. He didn’t see the point of school. He was gonna end up working in a factory anyway. It wasn’t like he was bullied or anything, he always had girls fawning over him, but he never retaliated. But seriously, why did he even need to know any of this stuff? But he went because it would please his grandparents, who he had lived with his whole life. Who was he kidding? He skipped all the time. He’d rather hang out with the newsies in Manhattan, or bet on horses at the Sheepshead Racetrack. That’s how he got his nickname. He was always wasting his coins on those horses. But it gave him such a rush. He would watch the horses sprint, sweating in the sunlight as their muscles moved and his heartbeat quickening in anticipation. It was addicting.

“Edward, darling, please tell me you’ll actually go to class today.” Race looked up from his plate of fried eggs and toast. His grandma was looking at him, a smile on her face.

“I can’t promise anything, Nana.” He winked and stood up from the table. She sighed and picked up his plate.

“I can't say I'm surprised.” He laughed when the front door slammed shut. His grandfather was home. He hadn’t been there all night, which meant he had wasted the night away drinking.

“Get upstairs, Edward.”

“But Nana-” He began to protest.

“Now!” She shoved him into the hallway. He tripped over his own feet, stumbling into the hallway and towards the back door. He heard the smack of a hand against skin. He opened the back door and ran until he could not see the house anymore.

Race’s feet pounded on the cobblestones streets of New York, dodging carriages and woman walking with their children. He was sweating and panting and even coughing because of all of the smoke in the street. The grey-toned city blurred past him. He found himself at the street corner, where a newsboy was stationed.

“Oh, hey! I know you,” the newsboy said with recognition. Race looked around.

“Yeah,” the boy nodded. “You sometimes buy papes from Weasel with me and the Manhattan boys.”

“Oh!” Race knew the boy. He just hadn’t recognized him since he was hunched over in an attempt to make himself look sickly. He was one of the Manhattan newsies. His name was, James, maybe? Jack? Yeah, that was it. Jack. Race caught a glimpse of Jack’s stack of newspapers when an idea hit him. This was his chance to leave his old life behind and start over. It was genius. He threw on his most charming smile and winked.

“Do you and the Manhattan boys got the room for one other in that lodging house of yours?”

Manhattan didn’t need a leader like the other boroughs did. Those newsies worked as a team and had each other's backs. Similar to Spot, Race fit right in with the newsies. Before long, it felt like he had lived in that lodging house his whole life. He almost forgot about Nana. Almost. Sometimes he’d lie awake at night, staring at the chipped ceiling, thinking about what had happened to her. But eventually the sound of wind rustling and carriages clopping in the street lulled him to sleep and he would forget about it by morning.


	2. First Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow Spot and Race meet. I mean, it was bound to happen soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect chapters this often, I've just been snowed in for over 48 hours. Also, I like this chapter way more than the first one so

Just because Race was a proper newsie now didn’t mean he stopped doing what he loved. What he loved being, well, betting on races. About twice a week, after selling his papers, he’d take his money and bet on the horses. Though he’d been doing it for years, he was pretty bad at it. Race usually left with less money than before.

Jack always told him not to go over there, it wasn’t their turf. But Race was stubborn, and Jack knew his warnings would go unheard. Besides if anyone did have a problem, Race could probably just charm them with his twinkling smile and smooth talk. That’s what he was counting on, anyway. And it looks like it was going to come into use when he noticed a boy with an intimidating gaze staring straight at him. Race quickly scooped his earnings off the counter into his bag, and turned towards the boy, meeting his stare. Race wasn’t one for compliments, but even he would admit this boy was attractive. Sure, he short in stature, so short that Race would have to lean down to meet his eyes, but you could easily see how strong he was, a tight, striped shirt hugging his chest. He was wearing pink, fucking pink suspenders. Race had the urge to go over there, put his thumbs underneath the straps, and just snap them, but he knew the kid would kill him for it. The boy in question had intense, ash blue eyes with a penetrating gaze. He had black strands of hair poking out from his newsboys cap and tan skin dotted with freckles that Race could see from 20 feet away. Something about him made Race uneasy. Uneasy enough to try and speed walk away. He kept walking, nervously chewing on an unlit cigar, when he turned into an alley. He looked behind him to make sure the boy wasn't following him when he ran into something that made him stumble back. It was… the same boy?

“How in God's name did you-?” Race stared at him with wide eyes.

“I should be asking the questions here,” the boy raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing on my turf? You ain't Brooklyn.”

“I wasn't doin’ nothing I was just watching the races,” Race gestured in the direction of the stables. “I wouldn’t sell on Brooklyn turf, I-I'm a Manhattan newsie.” he stumbled over his words. Something about this boy was getting the usually calm and collected Race jittery. The boy stepped closer and looked him up and down suspiciously. Race just then realized he was pressed up against the brick wall and was cornered.

“You better be telling the truth.” The boy advanced even closer.

“Are-are you Spot Conlon?” Something in Race's brain clicked. Spot nodded and pointed a finger at Race's chest.

“And you better remember it.” Spot smirked. “I usually know every newsie, but I don’t recognize you.” Race drew a breath, regaining his confidence as Spot seemed to step down a bit.

“Well that's a pity. I like to think I'm pretty recognizable.” Race tugged on his cigar and winked.

“Alright, whatever you say.” Spot rolled his eyes. “What's your name, new kid?”

“Race, Racetrack Higgins.” Spot raised an eyebrow.

“Race?” He scoffed.

“Says the boy named after a pattern!” Race said defensively. Spot let out a bark of laughter. Race smiled. He thought Spot had a nice laugh.

“You're not too bad, Higgins.”

“Higgins? Really?”

“Hey, I’ll call you sweetheart if you really want me to.” Spot stepped away from Race, putting his guard down. Race felt a blush creep up his neck and smiled. Wait, what? This was the King of Brooklyn we were talking about. Jack warned him about Spot. Told him about how he was notorious for being overprotective of his borough and beating up anyone who wronged him or his newsies. He needed to keep his cool. Spot began walking away, his back turned. Race let out a sigh of relief and slid down the wall.

“Well?” Race looked up to see Spot facing him again. He cocked his head in confusion.

“Aren't you coming?” Race's face lit up in recognition.

“Oh!” He quickly jumped to his feet. “Uh, sure.” Spot nodded and began walking again. Race followed.

 

Race's feet hurt. He'd been silently following Spot through the twists and turns of Brooklyn, scared to ask where they were headed. After ten minutes of nothing but the sound of their feet hitting the cobblestones, Spot sighed and looked behind him.

“You can walk next to me, I'm not royalty, ya know?” Race scrambled beside Spot.

“Sure I know that.” He grinned sloppily. Spot rounded another corner.

"So, why haven't I seen your face 'round here?" Race adjusted his cap.

“Well, I only started living with the newsies a few months ago.”

“And before that?”

“Lived with my folks’ folks.”

“Your… grandparents?” Race nodded.

“You can just say that.” Spot shook his head. “So, if you got them, why’d you leave?” Race looked away.

“I had to. Wasn’t safe no more.”

“I can get that.” Spot nodded knowingly. “Is Jack treatin ya alright?”

“Yeah, I suppose. Pretty normal. I got my own bunk and sell my own papes. It’s better than my old home.”

“We’re here.” Race had been so caught up in the conversation he hadn’t noticed that Spot was taking him to the Brooklyn lodging house.

“What are we doing here?” He looked at Spot, confused.

“I want you to meet my newsies. Jack’s boys are nice, but boring. I thought you could use the excitement. You like gamblin, don’t ya? My boys are all over that.”

“What about you?” Being reminded of his earnings, Race stuck his hand in his pocket to make sure his coins were still there. Spot shook his head.

“Nah. I don’t like the risk.”

“I wouldn’t think you’d become the leader of Brooklyn without a little risk.” Race smirked.

“That’s different. Now, shut up, and come meet the Brooklyn newsies.” Spot started up towards the double-doors.

“Aight.” Race shoved his hands in his pockets and hopped up the staircase after Spot.

 

Spot didn’t know why he’d brought a random Manhattan newsie to the lodging house. He’d never done anything like that before. Most kids he caught on his turf he just soaked, and that’s what he was planning today with Higgins. But something about Race made him rethink it. And here he was, leading him up the staircase of his home.

“Ay, Spot!” Someone called his name as soon as he pushed open the door. Annie, Brooklyn’s youngest newsie, bounded towards him, her sandy curls bouncing around.

“Nice to see ya, kid.” He ruffled her hair affectionately. She only reached his waist in height, so she grabbed onto his leg.

“I sold all my papers today, Spot!”

“Did you really?” Spot gasped and squatted to meet her face to face. She nodded fervently.

“Ok! That’s all, Spot!” Annie ran off out of the hall up the stairs. Spot heard Race laugh from behind him. He stood up and looked at Race.

“What?” Race grinned, looking at his feet.

“Nothing, she’s just real cute, that’s all.” Spot smiled at that remark.

“Don’t I know that. Anyway, you aren’t here to babysit, you’re here to meet my boys.” Spot led him into another room off of the hallway. This room was open, filled with bunk beds. Blankets and pillows were strewn everywhere, and the ceiling was leaking, leaving a puddle in the corner. Windows allowed sunlight to seep in, showing just how dusty the place really was. Spot grabbed Race’s shoulders.

“Hey, there’s Bangs and Louis over there now.” Spot was talking about the two boys at a table in a corner, one with a cigar in his mouth, the over puzzling over his hand of cards.

“I’ll raise ya.” The younger looking of the two slapped two pennies onto the table. The older one smirked and laid down his hand.  
Spot suddenly realized Race was no longer standing next to him. He whipped his head around to see Race had already pulled up a chair and was watching the game unfold with unbroken attention. Spot shook his head. This kid was so quick he was gonna make his head spin.

“This is Bangs,” Spot said gesturing to the older one. “He looks tough, but he’s a real softie.” Bangs punched him in the arm without looking up from his hand.

“Shut your mouth, Spot, or I might tell this new kid here some secrets about you.” Spot fake gasped.

“Oh wow, I’m real scared now.” Bangs glared at him from above his hand but didn’t say anything. The younger one shook Race’s hand.

“And I’m Louis. Do you want me to deal you in next round?”

“You bet.” Race scooched his chair closer to the table. Spot watched the skinny boy take more cards, ruffle his own sandy blonde curls, and Spot smiled to himself. He knew Race would get along with his newsies.


	3. Acquaintances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost split this into two chapters, but I wasn't sure so this one is extra long.

“What did yous just say?!” Albert’s mouth dropped at Race’s remark. Race stared at him.

“What’s the big deal? All he did was show me ‘round.” All the newsies were sat around a rickety old table eating breakfast. They usually didn’t eat together, but Jack insisted that they have a meal together once a week, like a family. Albert took another bite of his old toast.

“Spot usually doesn’t even talk to other boroughs. I’ve never heard of nothing like this happening.” Specs quipped up through a mouth full of food. Jack, seated at the head of the table, of course, poked at his food.

“It sure is unusual. He must like you a lot. Or maybe he hates you. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer ammi right?” He waved his fork around. “That’s why I always keep Crutchie around.” Crutchie had been busy carving his name into the table with his spoon but looked up at the mention of his name.  
“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” Jack waved dismissively. Crutchie shrugged and returned to his carving.

Specs leaned forward, still intrigued in Race’s story.

“So what exactly happened?” Race shrugged.

“I don’t know, I was down at Sheepshead-”

“I thought I told you to stay away from there!” Jack interrupted. Race smiled sheepishly and rubbed his neck.

“Sorry, Jack. I saw his staring at me and then he cornered me in the alleyway. I thought for sure he was going to soak me, and it looked like he thought he was gonna too. Then he just… didn’t. And he took me to the lodging house.” Specs spit out his food at this.

“The lodging house?!” Race nodded.

“When I first met Spot he caught me on the Brooklyn Bridge and gave me this scar.” Specs thumped his leg up on the table and began rolling up his pants.

“Specs! Not at the table!” Jack smacked his leg off the table. Specs mumbled a sorry, but the circulation bell rang loudly throughout the square outside. All the newsies scrambled up from the table, shoving their chairs and each other out of the way. Race grabbed his bag off the chair and sprinted after everyone else.

 

At the end of the day, Race found himself at Sheepshead again. He told himself it was because he wanted to gamble, but honestly, he wasn’t really feeling it. Subconsciously, he kinda wanted to see Spot again. But he’d never admit that.

Race was leaned against the outside of the racetrack, toying with his cigar, and keeping a lookout for Spot. He stood there for hours, just watching the passerby. He looked up at the sky, that was slowly deepening in color. It was getting late, and he should probably get back to Manhattan. He picked up his bag and started heading off when someone tapped on his shoulder. Race whipped around to see Spot looking up at him.

“I thought I told you to stay off of Brooklyn turf.” The words were threatening but Spot was trying to hide a smile.

“Now I didn’t think you were serious.” Race retaliated, adjusting his hat with a smirk. He was keeping his cool, but on the inside he was freaking out, staring into Spot’s gorgeous grey eyes. Did he really just use gorgeous to describe a boy? What the hell was going on?

“I don’t like to ask for things twice, Higgins.” Spot squared his shoulders.

“And you don’t gotta tell me twice, I’ll get out of your hair in a second Spottie.” Spot’s brows furrowed at the nickname, but he didn’t say anything. Race looked around for a second.

“Actually I was wondering, does anyone actually sell here?”

“In Sheepshead?” Race nodded. Spot thought for a second.

“Not that I know of. Most kids stay away from the coast.” Spot looked at Race with skepticism. “Why? You wanna sell over here?”

“Well, as long as no one else was. Why not?” Race offered. Spot looked him up and down again.

“Give me one reason why I should.”

“W-what?

“I don’t benefit from it. Why would I let you sell over here?” Spot was looking up at Race, but somehow Race felt shorter than him. Spot just had that effect on people.

“‘Cause you’ll see more of me.” Race winked and Spot raised an eyebrow. Race cleared this throat, taking the hint. “It’ll give you a better rep. Every borough is scared shitless of you right now.”

“I don’t follow. Isn’t that good?”

“Depends on how you look at it. People are more likely to turn on you if they fear you instead of liking you. If you let me sell here on the bay, I’ll let everyone know what a nice guy you are by letting me do this. The other newsies will think more highly of you.” Race finished, looking at Spot nervously. He looked deep in contemplation. Then he smiled.

“That ain’t a bad head you got on your shoulders. Sooner or later you might find yourself leading Manhattan.” Race laughed, flattered.

“Nah, Jack’s got that title.” Spot scoffed at that.

“Sure, he takes care of y’all, but that doesn’t make him your leader. He’s too nice.”

“And I’m not?” Spot rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But what do you say Spot? Will you let me sell here?” Spot gazed at Race, an unreadable look on his face.

“Sure.” Spot spit into his hand and stuck it out. “But,” He added. “Only on weekdays.” Race bit his lip.

“Fine.” He shook Spot’s hand and wiped his hands on his pants. That was kinda gross.

“You got plans tonight?” Spot asked, and Race noted he didn’t wipe his hands on his pants.

“Why? You asking me on a night on the town?”

“You’re gonna get yourself soaked someday with that reckless mouth of yours. If some of those Bowery newsies heard you talking like that, they’ll call you a faggot.” Race’s breath hitched at that word. He’d never been called it before, but he’d sure heard it before. He once saw a kid getting beat up in an alleyway while his attackers yelled the word over and over. He didn’t want that kind of trouble. But he laughed it off.

“But I’m headed off to Medda’s theatre tonight. Jack invited me and some of the Brooklyn boys, but none of them wanted to go. And then Jack canceled. Boy is he flaky.”

“And you think I’ll want to go because… ?” Race chewed on his cigar. Spot shrugged.  
“I don’t know, you just seemed like the kind for the flair of dramatic.”

“I’m not sure if that was an insult or a compliment.” Race teased.

“You don’t even have to pay. I’ll sneak you in the back. And I’ll bring some beer. The show starts at seven.”

“Wow, romantic.” Spot gave him a look at that remark. Race put up his hands. “Sorry, sorry, I’ll get better.”

“So it’s a date?” Spot asked, turning to walk away. Race sighed.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go.”

“Great!” Spot yelled from about thirty feet away now, he turned around and ran off into a different street. Race shook his head. What had he gotten himself into?

 

“Got a hot date tonight, Racer?” Race was washing his hair in the sink when Elmer also walked into the bathroom.  
“Nah, I’m just going to meet Spot.” He looked up, water dripping in his eyes.

“Well dry your hair before you go out, you don’t want to freeze.”

“Who are you, my mom?” Race retorted. Elmer splashed him in the face with water.

“Alright, alright.” Race sputtered and coughed. Elmer smacked him on the back.

“Good luck, Racer. Try not to get beat up.” Race wiped his face with a towel.

“I really don’t see why everyone is afraid of Spot. He seems nice.” Race wiped his face with a towel. Elmer laughed.

“I’m pretty sure he’s beat up half the kids here. He’s ruthless man. How else are supposed to become the leader of the most feared borough in the biggest city in the world?”

“Not sure about that last part, but I think I get it.”

“Good. Be careful with that kid.” Elmer left without another word.

 

Spot sat on the staircase behind Medda’s theatre, wringing his hands. God, why did he think this was a good idea? He had brought a small bottle of whisky that Bangs had given him for Christmas. It wasn’t much, and Spot didn’t usually drink, but it was a special occasion. Well, kinda. Two sixteen-year-old boys and a bottle of whisky. What could go wrong? He was just lost in his own thoughts on how this was a terrible idea, when he heard faint whistling from around the corner. The street was lined with arc lamps, and when Racetrack rounded the corner, the soft light illuminated his face. He broke out in a smile when he saw Spot on the staircase. Spot jumped to his feet.

“Race! Glad you could make it.” Race eyed the bottle of bronze liquid.

“Don’t get too excited, I only came to get loaded.” Race chuckled.

Race bounded up the steps with his lengthy legs to meet Spot. Spot slowly creaked the unlocked door open, looking both ways. The sound of a piano playing in the distance washed over them, and you could hear people laughing and cheering from inside.

“After you.” Spot held the door open and Race grinned. They were in a dimly lit wooden hallway. Race quickly realized they weren’t in a hallway, but backstage at theatre.

“Here c’mon.” Spot whispered, grabbing Race’s hand to lead him through the darkness. Race could have melted right there. Spot’s hands were somehow soft and calloused at the same time. They fit well in Race’s hand. Spot wasn’t sure where his sudden burst of confidence came from, but he wasn’t complaining. Spot led Race up a staircase that went from the backstage to the balcony in the back of the house.

“People only really sit down there.” He dropped Race’s hand to show him two seats, right in the middle of the balcony where they could see the stage perfectly. Spot plopped down in a seat, resting his feet on the seat in front of him, acting like he owned the place. To be fair, he’d been here over a dozen times in the past month. Race tentatively sat next to him, crossing his legs instead. Medda Larkin was center stage, the spotlight making her jewelry blinding. The whole theatre had this homey feeling, emitting warmth, and Medda’s stage presence was no different. She was singing, her smooth, honey-like voice crooning along to the grand piano beneath the stage. Spot thought her voice was beautiful. He nodded along to the jazzy tune, when he saw Race had closed his eyes to better enjoy the experience, a small smile teasing his lips. Spot caught himself staring at Race’s lips, and instead snapped his suspenders before leaning down to pick the bottle of whiskey off the ground. He unscrewed the top, and watching the golden drink gurgle into the cap as he poured it. He handed the cap to Race.

“Thought you only was here for the alcohol.” Race rolled his eyes.

“Well I didn’t expect this kinda show. This is actually pretty good.” But Race took the cap anyway and shot the drink down his throat. He coughed a little, and his eyes watered.  
“You good there?” Spot laughed.

“I’d like to see you do better.” Race said defensively.

“Fine.” Spot took the cap from Race and poured some whiskey into it for himself. Without even a countdown, he shot the drink down. It's cool in his mouth, a bit prickly if he did complain. He swallowed it, a warmth blooming in his chest and out to the rest of his body. Race stared while Spot licked his lips.

“Well, damn, Spot.” Race remarked. “You're pretty good at that.”

“Eh, you'll get the hang of it.” Spot waved dismissively.

 

Four songs and many drinks later, it was safe to say the two boys were more than tipsy. If either of them were to look in a mirror, they would’ve seen the embarrassingly red cheeks and droopy eyes. Race had never really been properly buzzed before. And it didn’t look like Spot could handle his alcohol either. Race was staring at Spots face, so close he could touch it. But instead he just stared.

“You look silly with rosy cheeks.” Race murmured.

“Don't be fuckin rude, Higgins, we all got problems.” Spot giggled. He was really cute when he giggled. Spot scooted closer, a determined look in his eyes.

“What's something you've never done that you've always wanted to do?” Race collapsed giggling at that.

“What?” Spot crossed his arms defensively.

“That's a stupid question, Spottie.”

“No it isn't! It's interesting.”

“You really want to know?” Race studied Spots face. Spot nodded. Race felt his pulse quicken, Spot’s face so near his. He could feel Spot’s hot breath, and he looked down at his lips. It may have been his imagination, but he could’ve sworn he saw Spot lean forward just the smallest amount when-

“I’ve never swam in the bay!” Race scrambled back.

“Really?” Spot slurred, also pulling away like nothing had happened.

“Really.” Spot paused, looking deep in thought.

“We could… go swimming.” Spot giggled.

“You are SO drunk.” Race grinned.

“I am NOT. And doesn’t that sound fun?” Spot almost fell out of his chair he was laughing so hard.

“Jesus, Spot. You’re so buzzed you’ll drown.”

“No, I won’t,” Spot insisted. “Besides you can always save me. You can be my knight in shining armor.” Race would be embarrassed at how much he was blushing at this point, but he doubted Spot would remember any of this once the sun rose. He stood up too quickly, the world woozing around him slowly. He helped Spot up out of his seat too. Spot nearly tripped over his own feet, and he grabbed Race’s shoulders to steady himself.

“Are we’s doing this?” Race muttered under his breath. Now regaining his footing, Spot stood up.

“Sure. Why not?”

 


End file.
